


Alhamdulillah

by likecrackingwater (1thetenfootlongscarf2)



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Islam, Other, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 07:42:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thetenfootlongscarf2/pseuds/likecrackingwater
Summary: Guzmán struggles with death and forgiveness and Nadia tries to help - from a distance.Grief is cold, even in the summer.





	1. Takbir

_ ٱلْـحَـمْـدُ للهِ _

* * *

_تَكْبِير_

* * *

 

He was floating, the sun beating off the heat of the street and into his face. There was sweat pooled under his arms and making his shirt cling to his lower back. It was expensive enough to keep its shape in the collar but lost the crisp, starched look as the day waned. Guzmán didn't know the exact time but he had left Lu at the restaurant after lunch. A car had collected her but he waved off her offer of a ride. When they had reconciled over the lake, him suspended over the drop, he had really, truly felt like she had managed to save him. Single handedly pulled him from the abyss.  

The feeling hadn't lasted. Guzmán had always been driven; he was secure in himself, in his own mind and choices. He knew it annoyed his friends. He had been called demanding, obsessive, callous. Hell, his own sister sometimes hated his passion. It used to be that when he faltered - drank too much or avoided a commitment - he would look to his parents as a guide. They were powerful, they knew everything, they could do no wrong. Childish thoughts and childish things. Later, when he found out the truth of his birth parents he would remember them as well. They were a warning. Don't fuck up for you'll end up like them: dead and forgotten. He had never been lazy. Sure, sometimes he would have skipped a swim planned later in the day or grabbed a burger, but something had changed. Something hadn’t survived. 

After Mama started sleeping in a different room from Father... No, it was before that. During Marina's funeral Guzmán had stood in the church and felt nothing. He was in the front pew gripping his mother's hand and able to look in Christ's downturned face and wondered, possibly for the first time, how Mary had mourned. She had gathered up her son and bathed him. Then wrapped him so carefully. The priest had blessed the congregation, made the sign of the Cross. Guzmán crossed himself but his heart was heavy, like it had stopped beating. He couldn't look away from the crucifix. It must have hurt. He didn’t hurt. He felt nothing but a sense of absence. 

When the Mass had ended they walked down to the cemetery. The coffin was dark wood, glossy in the sun. Guzmán was still holding his mother's hand. He bent his head, whispered, "Mama..." but she just held tighter and shook her head. His father looked forward with a dead gaze. The coffin shuttered and then was lowered with a series of straps. While they left people kept touching him, gripping his shoulder or shaking his hand, all muttering  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ over and over. He just took it then found himself pulled into a tight hug by Ander and held on tight, shaking. Shaking.

The reception at the house was stilted. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see anyone. When Polo came it was like a weight had lifted and Guzmán clung for a moment. "Thank you," he though he had said, and "I love you" but not much else. He was finally no longer alone. It didn't last because Polo shook him somehow in the crowd and he found himself at the edges of the room. He must have spoken to others - must have spoken the Lu or Ander but all he remembered was his Mama suddenly sobbing, calling for  _Marina, my baby, my baby_ and he had held on as tight as he could. She had shivered him is arms and he tried to be strong for her. He felt like he had failed.  

They were quiet that week, and the next. He and his mother crept around like there was something sleeping. Then things slowly begin to change. The first was him finding her sleeping in Marina's room. Next the dining room was emptied, followed by most of his father's watches. Guzmán ate less. He was more interested in laying in bed. He would stare at the wall for hours thinking nothing. Once he lay so still he felt like he had fallen asleep until the pain of his hips on the mattress made him shift. Then they, his quiet mother and absent father, had sat him down as a united front which they hadn't been in years and told him they were selling the house. The accounts were empty and they still had to pay the lawyers; all three of them despite the case being ongoing and his father out on bail. 

Carla's father, the snake Teodoro Rosón, could give them a stipend. They would not starve. The company was still in business and it would make money but they, their family, the proud and rich barons of this fucked town, were no more. It would take time. His father would haunt the halls at night. Guzmán could hear him pacing. 

"I think a few months to sell," his mother said but his father's face was shattered. There was only one thing he wanted to know.

"Will I still be able to go to Las Encinas?" Guzmán asked.

"Of course," his mother gripped his hand. Guzmán smiled tightly and his father smiled back. So, perhaps. It was the only thing he did not want to change.

Everything beyond that was a blur. Guzmán filled boxes as directed; he had not idea how he managed to collect so much shit. Half of what he took he didn't want yet every time he protested his mother became convinced.

"Guzmán, Guzmán," she would say, "what would we remember you by?"

Maria had been trapped under the weight of their family and now he had to shoulder it alone. It wasn't possible. It wasn’t fair. The place they moved to wasn't far from the school and Guzmán would drive his car into the city, leaving it where he liked. The parking tickets piled up in the footwell. Some part of him truly didn't care until his father sat him down.

"I cannot afford these tickets." He had a letter from the police and it shook in his hand. "Be responsible Guzmán! I have no money for this nonsense!"

The house was smaller then anywhere he had ever lived. His own room was half the size of his old one and the walls were bare. There was none of the touches his mother inflicted in the rest of the house. He kept the curtains drawn. Stifling, that was the word. Guzmán would eat alone late at night in the dark kitchen, cold sandwiches and a dry sticky mouth. It hurt to stand some days, his knees and shoulders aching. 

He would forget his phone in the bottom of his bed, feel the light of the screen heat his leg when messages would come in but would fail to develop an interest for days at a time. A month later and his boxes were open, the floor thick with clothes, but he did nothing. He did nothing and he drank. He did nothing and he drank and he wandered, the sun hot on his back and swimming in sweat. Guzmán squinted. He must have lost his sunglasses. The streets looked familiar, the shopfronts brightly coloured and neat. A few women passed him all flocked together and heads covered. Then a few men.

There was someone he recongised from the back. 

"Hello!" He called. None of them faltered. He tried again, "Hello!"

The familiar head turned and Guzmán’s stomach bottomed out. It was Nadia's father. He froze while Guzmán stuttered to a stop.

"Al... asa... As-salāmu ʿalaykum." Guzmán finally got out.

Nadia's father looked at him steadily. There was something stern in it, but Guzmán only felt distantly ashamed. When he had swore to him in the school, all those months ago, he had felt like a man. He had made a vow. Now he was drunk in the day and lost. 

Nadia's father nodded while something softened in his face. "Wa-alaikum salaam," he replied. Then he stepped closer. "Are you alright, boy?"

Guzmán nodded quickly but then a tear slipped free and he was shaking his head and saying nothing. Nadia's father came closer until he gripped Guzmán's elbow. 

"I'm am very sorry about your sister."

Guzmán swallowed hard, could only manage, "Me too."

"Guzmán, yes?" He asked.

"Yes. Yeah," Guzmán rubbed his free hand across his face. "Mr. Shana." He felt like they should shake hands but Guzmán didn't know what to do. 

"Please, call me Yusef."

Guzmán nodded. "Sure, Mr... Yusef."

Yusef dropped his arm and Guzmán awkwardly grabbed his own elbow. 

"I don't want to interrupt," Guzmán looked to the two other men further up the street who were still waiting. Yusef took a step away, then offered, "Would you like to come?"

"Where?" But Guzmán felt like he might know.

"We are going to pray." Yusef stood so they were shoulder to shoulder. "So?"

"Alright." Guzmán said and followed him. Yusef spoke quickly to his companions, Guzmán keeping close. He was starting to sober up - he could feel the lightness slipping away; the looseness left his limbs and they became heavy - dragging him down. They walked down the street and then another, Guzmán always vaguely aware of the shops and names of the alleys, then to a door. They filled up a flight of stairs one after another. It was quiet but overhead was the murmur of voices. Yusef led them into a small room, one wall lined with a shoe rack and the other with a low-set trough sink. It stunk of dampness and leather. 

"Shoes." Yusef told him so Guzmán stripped them off, them his socks. He copied the other men as best he could; cupping the water to bathe his face, running his hands over his hair and rubbing under his nose then washing his hands and feet, between his fingers and toes. He stumbled as he stood but Yusef gripped his arm again. There were no women he could see. 

"Come." 

Then there was a room, vast. It was long with layers of rugs and a line of robes on a row of clothes hooks. Every rug was thick, onetime brightly patterned but all worn sightly, faded under passing bare feet. The walls were bare. Guzmán  shrugged a robe on, it caught on his belt buckle, then put the hat Yusef handed him. The hat was large and had a vague bowl shape. It felt like it cupped the top on his head, like a palm Lu would run over his scalp, but with no intention. Just a sense of being held. Then Yuself laid out two rugs; Guzmán saw he had dressed the same way, a robe and hat. He awkwardly crouched at the end of the extra rug Yusef set out. They were right at the back. At the front was a niche, a crevice in the wall ringed in patterns and writing. 

"You don't have to do anything." Yusef took some sort of position. "Just sit here and breathe."

Then the men began to move like a wave, all rising to their feet. Guzmán stayed on the ground and watched. Then they all began to say _Allāhu akbar_ with their hands raised next to their heads. Guzmán looked up at Yusef, then around. They were all speaking softly, almost singing. They then bowed, hands on knees, saying something with  _allah_ a few times. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then all the men knelled so Guzmán straightened on his knees. When they put their heads to the ground he followed and breathed. He did not know what they said but he closed his eyes, calmed some part of himself that was quaking and let it slowly unknot. Guzmán was late sitting back, and for the rest of it, but he copied as well as he could. It was quiet enough that he felt easy with the movements; standing, kneeling, laying down and exhaling like he had never breathed properly before. He stumbled over the looking, first over one sholder then the other, but he got the words for the last repetition:  _As-salāmu ʿalaikum wa-raḥmatu 'llah_. It was finished. 

He shucked the robe after he handed Yusef back the hat.

When they left the prayer room he was asked, "How do you feel?"

"Better," Guzmán admitted, "thank you." They all descended the stairs together then dispersed into the street. Yusef and Guzmán walked back to where Guzmán had first spotted them. The sun was slightly lower and a hit of shadows creased along the seams where the buildings met the streets, copying the edges of the roofs. The plaza was washed with sunlight, faded to a pale intimidation.

"You can come on Friday," Yusef said. Guzmán shrugged and didn't meet his eyes. 

"Alright, thank you."

Yusef left him there with a "Salam."

Guzmán watched him leave for a moment, then set off to find his car. It took a while. He had to double back all the way back to the restaurant he had been with Lu, then turn back into the city, looking for the billboard he remembered: a women holding a child with a radio station lettered in bright blue. Despite the searching he felt loose, not the least bit frustrated. The car beeped when he unlocked it. While he drove home he rolled down the music and listened to the sound of the wind. 


	2. Sujūd

_ ٱلْـحَـمْـدُ للهِ _

* * *

  _سُجود_

* * *

He slept in on Monday, head aching and eyes watering in the light. Mama must have pulled the curtains. It illumined the walls, the piles of clothes, the film of dust across the desk he still hadn’t used. He ducked in the shower then sat on his bed, dripping on the duvet. The place stunk. Guzmán checked his phone. A text from Lu he didn’t open and three from Polo he did. The weekend had passed in a vague blur. He could remember having deep conversations around a fire with Polo, flashes of dancing pressed up against Lu with her hair smelling of flowers, the lurching sickness against someone’s garden wall. The taste of bile and harshness.

 **Where did you go?** Was the first, followed by **I hope you didn’t drive** and **Call me when you get home**. They were all over six hours old so Guzmán checked Lu’s message. She wanted to go shopping then grab drinks. He agreed after a while when his skin almost dry from the air. He picked though some things, sniffed a pair of jocks then slipped them on. Then he dumped a box of his books on the desk sweeping dust into piles. He loaded armfuls of fabric then carried the box to the laundry room. The whole house was quiet. He snagged a bottle of wine, not bothering to check the type and dropping the screw-top on the counter. The first swing was sour, but it tasted sweeter as time went on. By the time Mama returned from wherever she had been he was on the fourth load of washing, having swept the kitchen floor and scrubbed the tiled areas of the bathroom. One of the windows was flung open to dilute the stench of cleaning products. The sun was beginning to set. He felt lightheaded, unbalanced. She smiled brittle and closed lipped.

“It looks nice, darling.”

Guzmán shrugged. “Thanks Mama.” He was on the third bottle, sipping from a glass to pace himself now. It twisted up his stomach. He wasn’t sure he had eaten anything in days. He needed to brush his teeth – he had somehow forgotten. Guzmán rubbed his eye. “I can do yours,” he offered.

“Thank you,” Mama tapped the counter quietly. “I do my own though, except for the dry cleaning.”

“Do you want me to go get it?” Guzmán felt a need to leave the house. The lack of going anywhere was clawing at his brain.

“Not now dear,” she patted his hand. “Maybe before dinner? Check and see if they’re open.”

He had to go into his room to get his phone. The half-cleaned state felt more exhausting then what he had woken up to. There was a number of missed calls from Polo. Guzmán sighed but lifted the phone to his ear.

“Sorry, Polo,” he said. “I got caught up in …”

“It’s fine,” Polo cut him off. “Carla’s having a party, if you want to come.”

“What did you call this weekend?” Guzmán asked.

“Warm up,” but Polo wasn’t light-hearted. The tone made Guzmán uncomfortable. Even since the funeral Polo had been manic – part close and part evasive. “Lu is coming, so I know you’ll want to see her.”

“I saw her on Saturday.” Guzmán flicked his knee a few times. “I have to help my mother tonight. She had a long day. I have to do some things for her in town.”

Polo was suddenly apologetic, distant, like he just remembered Marina and everything else. “Right, of course. That’s no problem.” He didn’t offer to help. Guzmán sighed.

“So, have a good night.” He could feel the awkwardness pricking at his scalp. There was a tight winding across his shoulders, like he had forgotten to stretch. Guzmán tried to roll them.

Polo just breathed loudly over the connection then said, “Yeah. You too.” He hung up first. Guzmán looked at the home screen then opened the browser. The dry cleaner would be open until seven thirty. Plenty of time, so he wandered back into the kitchen.

Mama had put the bottle away. She was sipping on a glass but offered him juice. Guzmán took it and they sat next to each other on the stiff-backed tan couch. The whole kitchen was shades of light brown and blue, soft with windows over a small garden and a short patio. Nothing like the view across the hills they used to ignore. “I love you, Guzmán.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I love you too, Mama.” He stroked her hair. “I’ll get that dry cleaning for you.” They sat there until his father come home.

* * * * * * * *

When he loaded the dry cleaning into the back of the car, spread across the seats to keep its shape, he checked the billboard. It was now promoting a line of yogurts; berries and bananas cluttered the edges of the poster. There was a small symbol in red – _halal._ Guzmán checked his parking slip then locked the car.

 **Ran in some friends,** he sent to his mother. **Will be a little late.**

Then he had cut across the road, weaving down a few alleys. It was about ten minutes to the plaza. He got turned around once but found himself at the door again. When he tried it, it was locked, so he looked at the bank of doorbells. One had a label in Arabic so he pressed it. There was some static then a tone buzzed, and the lock clicked. The door was heavy. Guzmán shoved it open and grabbed it to keep it from banging off the wall. The stairs were wood with a patchy runner that muffled his footsteps.

The washing room was empty so Guzmán took a moment to look from the landing, standing at the saddle of the door. There was another prayer room to his right, on the other side of the shoe rack and to his left a small sitting room cramped with a few desks, a corkboard cluttered with flyers. There were three old men sitting on a low couch, all with a propped knee. They weren’t speaking so Guzmán nodded once then went to the trough. The water was so even in temperature he barley felt it. He rubbed his face twice then swiped his hands over his hair. Then hands and feet, between his fingers and toes. He kept to the carpet then went into the prayer room.

He was surprised to find it empty. Guzmán had expected at least someone, like when the old women would sit for hours in church over the rosary. He shrugged on the robe, snagged a rug. Then he remembered the hat and hunted for one. When he put it on there was that same feeling over his mind, like a hand had pressed to his head, firm. When he was very small his father used to do that, press firm and say, “Well done, Guzmán.”

He faced the niche, the rings of colour and words. Then he went through the motions; standing, bowing, kneeling, then forward palms flat and leaning to the ground. That was where he could relax, where he could sigh out the stress he hadn’t noticed until he was a low as he could be. Guzmán just held the one phrase he knew in his mind – _Allāhu akbar_. Lu had always been firm in herself, in her place. Carla was more flexible, dabbled in meditation and yoga. She told their group once that yoga was better than the _mantras_. She found the phrases ridiculous and boring and repetitive; but he was doing that now, repeating _Allāhu akbar_ until there was nothing else cluttering his thoughts. Then he sat back on his heels. He repeated the cycle again, resting too long on his knees, head to the ground, until he noticed someone nearby. It was a small boy wearing jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot with a shaggy haircut.

“You’re doing it wrong,” the kid said. Guzmán got to his feet. He took that as his cue to leave. He hung up the robe and left the hat on the peg as well.

The kid followed him towards the door. “You did it wrong,” he repeated. “It doesn’t count if you it wrong.”

Guzmán didn’t look back as he snapped back, “Leave me alone. Where’s your parents?”

“Getting ready.” The kid shoved past Guzmán into a crowd that was milling around; the area was crammed with men and women slipping off shoes and washing. To the right, Guzmán checked, the old men were still where he had seen them. Then Yusef walked up from the stairs, his wife, his daughter, and his son following right behind. Before Guzmán could move into the bustle Yusef spotted him.

“Guzmán.” Yusef shook his hand. “Hello.” He seemed pleased.

“Hello, Mr. Shana, Mrs. Shana.” He swallowed. “Nadia.” She looked him dead on, her face clenched. Her brother blinked a few times, looked perplexed, like Guzmán was a mirage. Guzmán couldn’t remember his name, grabbed for the man’s hand. He was still seeing Ander so he might as well get familiar. Drug pushing piece of-.

“Guzmán,” he introduced himself.

“Omar.” They shook.

Their mother left but the other three ringed him for a moment. Then a man brushed past Guzmán to enter the prayer room so Guzmán shuffled into the area occupied by everyone else. Nadia had an eyebrow raised. Guzmán couldn’t meet her eye – Yusef had crossed his arms but didn’t say anything.

She was wearing a black hijab, not a hint of hair. “What are you doing here?” She looked upset. Guzmán shifted on his feet and she looked down, eyes narrowed. “What are you _doing_ here, Guzmán?”

Beside her Omar beat a hasty retreat in silence. He eyes were huge in his face. Guzmán had a feeling Ander was going to call soon. Even tonight, if his luck didn’t hold. Which it hadn’t in a while.

Yusef asked, “Are you staying for _Marruecos_?”

“No,” Guzmán tapped his fingers on his leg. “I have to be home for dinner, I’ve already been here too long.”

“Alright,” Yusef looked at Nadia, then said something to her in Arabic. Her face twisted up and she hissed something back. Guzmán watched uncomfortably. Then she made a sound of disgust while disappearing into the sitting room. The old men were still quiet, all their eyes yellowed and sunken. Nadia returned and handed him a book.

“Here.”

Guzmán cradled it awkwardly. “Thank you. _Sukran._ ” She gave him a baffled look.

“Sure. You’re welcome.” Then she slipped away. Guzmán avoided following the shape of her scarf into the press of people. A few more men brushed past so Guzmán took a few steps towards the door.

“I need to get – “

Yusef cut him off, “Your shoes, yes?”

“Yes.” Guzmán watched him duck down then grabbed his shoes, trying to juggle them and the book. Yusef quickly pulled it free.

“Put on your shoes.”

When Guzmán had Yusef handed him back the book. “There are classes on Wednesday nights, if you want to come.”

That made Guzmán look for Omar or Nadia, but it was too hard with the crowd. “I… thank you for the offer.” This wasn’t a competition. He hadn’t felt the need to take something on in months, since Marina. Just being unsure felt off-putting. He backed up a bit, then tacked on “See you later,” as he slipped out onto the landing.

It took a fair amount of weaving before he reached the street. He was the only one leaving, it felt like, forcing his way up a river. He was back at the car in no time at all. The sun looked like it had hardly moved. His mother had texted him an hour ago, **Alright, be safe. Love you.**

Guzmán quickly texted that he was on his way home. He set the Qur’an on the passenger seat and kept looking at it while he drove. When it got too chilly, he rolled up the window halfway. The house had no gate, so he just drove up the drive, parked it next to his father’s low-slung silver coupe. There were lights on in the living room.

Guzmán wasn’t prepared for his father to be coming down the hall from the bathroom while Guzmán was trying to slip into his room. It was only lit by the lights in the kitchen, cutting a line on the carpet and leaving the walls murky. There was a tension wrapping around Guzmán’s head. Ventura Nunier had seemed mythic to Guzmán when he was younger. Now something had made his thin face seem haggard. It could have just been the shadows.

“Did you have fun with your friends?”

The bottom dropped from Guzmán’s stomach. “Yes,” he choked out.

His father glanced at the book but didn’t seem interested. “Well, your mother has prepared dinner so be quick.” Then he pulled out his phone, eyes scanning the screen. “Hurry up, Guzmán,” he added as he walked away.

In his room Guzmán was surprised to find all his dirty clothes piled in a basket, the clean ones hung up. All the drawers had been shut in the dresser and his books evenly stacked on his desk. With no time Guzmán set the Qur’an on his end table.

He kissed his mother on the cheek then took a seat next to her. The empty one seemed to suck the light from the room. Guzmán couldn’t look at it. They were an odd number now, fractured. When Guzmán spooned the paella into his mouth he couldn’t taste it. The pounding made him turn down the wine, offered twice, and sip at water. His father made an effort to not look at his phone. It purred on the table and they all watched it until Laura Osuna sharply set down her fork and said, “Ventura, please.”

Ventura clicked a button on the side then tucked it away. Guzmán ate slower. His mother smiled at him.

“You did so much today.”

Guzmán smiled back, then remembered. “I left the dry cleaning in the car, Mama.”

“Thanks fine.” She sipped her glass. “You father can get it after dinner.” His father didn’t disagree. Guzmán nodded weakly.

“Sure, mother.”

She folded her hands. “Guzmán was so helpful,” Laura repeated. “He cleaned so many things today; the kitchen, the bathrooms, his room…”

Ventura huffed. “I didn’t know you aspired to be a janitor, son.”

Guzmán looked down. “I was just –” he tried to take a drink, but his hand shook so he dropped it to the table. Guzmán curled it into a fist, looking Ventura in the face. “If it helps Mama, I don’t care what you think.”

There was a strained silence. Guzmán wanted to flee – to his bed or the prayer room. He tried again. “I don’t mind helping. It’s another few weeks until I go back to school, and we should be unpacked by then.”

“Alright,” his father didn’t say any more.

“Why don’t we watch _Idol_?” Laura suggested. “It’s the semi-finals.” They had never watched it as a family; Guzmán had no idea how his mother knew it was the semi-finals of anything. His father surprised him by agreeing first.

“Yes, my love.” He finished his drink. “Guzmán and I will clear the table.”

His mother swept out of the room. Guzmán carefully packed away his leftovers while Ventura dried the pot in the drainboard. The fridge was mostly bare – a few bottles of beer, the ziplock bag of paella, some sliced cheese and a heel of ham. The glasses rattled in the sink as he washed them. Ventura looked like he wanted to ask something, then sighed. “What book did Ander give you?”

“Ander didn’t give me a book.” Guzmán set the last glass on the drainboard then grabbed the other free towel. It squeaked over the glass. He had no idea what his father was taking about.

“Oh,” his fathers hands paused, a plate cradled in the towel. “Polo then? It looked like something larger then he would enjoy.” The Qur’an. He was asking about the Qur’an. Guzmán shoved the glass where it belonged on the shelf then grabbed another.

“It’s the newest _Game of Thrones_. The show is ending so I thought I would…”

“Alright,” his father stacked the dry plates then set them in the drawer. “Do you have summer reading to do?”

Guzmán looked into the sink then rubbed it dry. He dropped the sopping towel on the counter.

“I… I don’t but I thought I might do some night studying.” He swallowed. Guzmán couldn’t look his father in the eye. He felt his jaw clench, his fingers twitch.

“That’s good.” His father was tapping at his phone screen again. “Come, let’s go sit with your mother.”

Guzmán followed then shut off the lights, plunging the kitchen in darkness.

* * * * * * * *

It took two weeks until Guzmán went for a reason besides getting drunk in the afternoon with Lu. She was examining him over the rim of her margarita glass, licking at the salt on her upper lip. Her hair was loose, the dress clinging – she looked good. She always looked good but Guzmán felt nervous, like he hadn’t been in years. Suddenly he was trying to talk to her, and it was harder then he remembered.

“What are your topics, Guzmán?” Lu picked at her salad. It had been sprinkled with shrimp and she ate them delicately.

“Chemistry, English, Maths…” he was floundering. Guzmán couldn’t remember them all. “You?”

Lu tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Ah, this is a different programme. It’s self-driven.” Her teeth gleamed. “I think motivation is very important. Passion, that’s the key to getting where you want to be.”

“Passion,” Guzmán repeated. “Right.” He couldn’t look at his burger. His drink was sweating into the table, but he hadn’t touched it. The beer suddenly looked like piss and he locked his eyes to Lu’s hand wrapped around the bowl of her glass. “Are you excited?”

Lu pouted, a tactic he knew. “Well, the uniforms are better. No need to worry about the curve.” Her eyes gleamed. “There are brackets, Guzmán, I am entering with scores they have never seen.”

“Leading the pack.” He smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Of course, dear.”

Guzmán flagged a waiter. “Can I have a water?” He gestured to the beer. “And take this away.” The man nodded and grabbed it, vanishing between he tables.

At that Lu froze. Her full attention was like a laser, but she rarely used it. It was totally directed at Guzmán now. “What’s wrong?”

He picked at the napkin. “Nothing.”

She sat back. “Tell me. I know you don’t talk to anyone anymore.”

“I talk to Polo.” He shot back.

“On the phone. You haven’t been outside your parents’ house in weeks.”

“I saw you last weekend.” Lunch and a walk. Like reliving his second worst day, over and over.

Lu huffed. “We – you and I, Guzmán – have a standing appointment. I am your girlfriend. I should see you more then once a week, for an hour.” She leaned forward. “Do you know how long it’s been since I touched you?”

Guzmán looked at his lap. “No.”

She slapped the table lightly. “Not that, Guzmán. _Touched me_. Held my hand, even. Do you not know? I’ll tell you, sweetheart. Weeks, almost a month. Nothing! _Nada._ ”

Guzmán didn’t know what to say. He dropped the napkin, frustrated. “I don’t know what to say, Lu.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. He did. It might be muted, might have shifted, but he did.

“Guzmán,” Lu grabbed his hand. “Do you _love_ me?”

“Yes,” he insisted. “I do, I do love you.”

“Then why do you sound like you’re lying?”

He tried to twist away but she clung to his hand. “I don’t know.” He pulled again, shockingly close to tears. “I don’t know, _let go of me_.”

She dropped his hand. “Oh, Guzmán.” Lu dabbed at her lipstick. “Guzmán, my dear. You’re being too hard on yourself.” She pulled out a mirror, fluffed her hair at the front. “Come with me to a party.” She snapped the compact shut. “Let’s go have fun.” Guzmán didn’t know what to say. He knew what she was asking but Lu looked too tender.

“Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll pick you up.”

He even settled the bill and drove her home. When he dropped her off, he commented, “We live closer, now.” Guzmán wasn’t sure if he had noticed before.

Lu had. “I know.” She gave him a kiss. “Want to come in?” He looked past where she was leaning in his window to the gate and the road though it. He clenched his hands around the wheel.

“I’m fine.” Lu patted his cheek, then stepped back and watched him drive away. She was too collected to wave.

He did another three loads of washing. While he waited between cycles he sat on the couch are read the Qur’an or mopped the floors. He saw a car pull up and went to hide the book in his room. He kept an eye on the figure though the glass around the front door as he passed. As he set the Qur’an on his notebook in the endtable they rung the bell. Then rung it again, then again, then… Guzmán pulled it open.

“Hi,” said Ander. “Can I come in?”

His mother’s car was on the dive, tipped with bright colours but still looked like a box. Guzmán left the door open. Ander followed him in, through the kitchen, into the mudroom.

“Want to help me hang out the clothes?”

“Sure.” Ander started pulling out the wet mound of sheets. “Out the back?”

“Out the back.” They left watery lines across the patio. Ander clipped up the fitted sheets while Guzmán laid out the pillow covers. They contented until the pile was gone and the sun was making Guzmán’s hair stick to his forehead with sweat.

“You going to do another one?” Ander gestured to the washing machine.

“No,” Guzmán handed him a glass of water then got himself one. “I’m leaving soon.” He checked his phone. “In an hour.”

Ander set down his glass. It clicked loudly. “So, because Lu invited you, you’re now going?” He sounded pissed.

Guzmán rubbed on his own glass with his thumb. He glared at Ander. “She invited me, so what?”

“Polo had been trying to get you out of here for ages.”

“Last time I was with him I don’t even remember most of the weekend. Not exactly time will spent, Ander.” Guzmán poured out his glass and dropped it the sink. It rattled for a moment. “You didn’t invite me anywhere, if you remember.”

Ander threw out his arms. “Well, I was a little concerned, Guzmán.”

“Concerned?” Guzmán  walked around the counter towards him, shoved at his shoulders. “Concerned, but you didn’t say shit.”

Ander slapped his hands away. “Omar called me. What were you doing?”

That had Guzmán flinching away. “I’m not doing anything.”

Ander gripped the shoulder of his shirt and foisted it. “Guzmán.” He shook hard and Guzmán tried to wriggle away. “Guzmán, what were you doing at a mosque?” Ander seemed just as surprised as Guzmán when he went limp, scrambling for the counter. They ended up sitting on the floor, Ander’s arm twisted over Guzmán’s shoulders.

Guzmán groaned and scrubbed his face then left them up, hiding. “I was just walking around.” He muttered.

“How long?” Ander asked quietly.

“Few months, I don’t know.” Guzmán dropped his hands. “Either that or I need to see my therapist again.”

Ander made a considering noise. “Maybe you should.”

“Yeah.” They shifted at the same time, Ander hauling Guzmán up. “I’ll let you borrow a shirt. Want to ride with me? I have to pick up Lu.”

Ander was checking his phone but nodded without look up. “Sure, I grab one.”

“Okay.” Guzmán picked up his glass. “I’ll wash this and get everything put away. Just grab whatever, it’s the last door on the right in the hall.”

“Which hall?”

“There’s only one hall here, Ander.” While speaking Guzmán turned away. By the time he was done and wiping down the counters, Ander was back, changed and picking at his forearm.

“Ready?”

“Sure.” Guzmán pocked his phone and grabbed his keys off the hall table.

AS they buckled up Ander said, “My mom is coming to get the car. She needs it tonight.”

“That’s fine.” Guzmán carefully backed up then spun the wheel to redirect. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Ander sighed and sank back into the seat. “Six weeks until we’re back. You ready?”

“I’m fine.” There were a few turns. Guzmán took them fast, relishing the hum of the tyres.  “I’m ready. You ready?”

Ander turned on the radio. “Yeah, I’m ready to be done with school.” He turned the volume up a little

“You ready for Madrid?”

Ander groaned. “It they’re playing FIFA when we get there you can leave me in the car. I want to get drunk and hang out. I can get drunk and play video games at home.”

Guzmán clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll hang out, not to worry.” The road rolled underneath them. Ander’s phone started to beep. He pulled it out and started to text furiously.

“Hot date?” Guzmán joked.

“No,” Ander’s brow furrowed. He didn’t elaborate, spending the rest of the drive on this phone.

Lu didn’t say anything when Guzmán pulled up. She didn’t even speak to him, instead took a few selfies then looked out the window. By the time they stopped in front of Carla’s mother’s townhouse he was a little annoyed. He parked on the street, so they were close to the front door. Guzmán didn’t recongise any of the other cars besides Polo’s though.

“Do you know anyone coming?” Guzmán asked Ander as they approached.

Ander shrugged, seeming to navigate by feel, eyes glued to his screen. “No idea. Don’t care.”

Lu shrugged. She rolled her eyes when Guzmán looked at her. The front door was locked so Guzmán hammered on it. Then he pressed the bell a few times. Nothing happened. Lu shoved forward.

“Let me.” She knocked a few times, then pulled out her phone. “Carla, sweetheart, we are at the door. Let us in.” The message went with an electronic gust of wind. Her phone buzzed. She played it on speaker. “We’re in the back. The side gate is unlocked.” Ander took the lead, almost tripped over a short wall trying to type and walk.

“Look where you’re going,” Lu coached. She threw Guzmán a judging look. “He’s been useless since he started hooking up with that Otomian boy.” Her fingers were tight around Guzmán’s arm, grasping harshly. “Come on.”

Guzmán gritted his teeth at her. “I thought you and Nadia made up.”

Lu scoffed. “Who is still at Las Encinas? Hmm? Not _me,_ Guzmán.” She patted his cheek, mockingly. Ander shoved the gate and it opened under his hands. Music grew louder, the sounds of chatter mixing, the general noises of a crowd shifting to a beat.

“Come on, dear.” Lu’s nails dug in. “Let’s have fun.”

Guzmán let her tug him along. He saw Carla first, her dress shining like water in the light. There was Polo handing Ander a drink, bottle in hand and a heavy pour. Between was a temporary dance floor full of classmates -some he knew well enough. Right in the centre was Christian, bobbing along to the bass that shuttered through the ground. Guzmán craned but didn’t see Samul. Lu guided him over to Polo.

“Hello.” She kissed his cheeks. “Look what I got you.” She rested a hand on Guzmán’s chest. Polo grinned, handed him a drink, pulled him into a hug.

“Well, alright.” Lu jumped backwards, brushing off her annoyance with a loud giggle. It drew Carla over. Her hair was braided into a grown. Lu kissed her as well, then they compared dresses. There was an edge to their conversation that was new. Guzmán was still in Polo’s grip. He patted his friend’s back.

“Hi, good to see you too.” Polo finally released him. Half of Guzmán’s drink ended up in the grass or their shoes. Polo laughed it away.

“We haven’t seen you in ages.” That was Carla, and her smile was small. “How have you been?”

 Ander had bolted down his drink and tugged the bottle from Polo’s hand. “Just like old times, everyone. Look at us.” As he spoke he poured out a measure. That he also threw it back, poured a third. “Can’t imagine why Guzmán would want to avoid us.” He was encroaching on bitter.

Lu shot Ander a hurt look. This seemed genuine, but Guzmán was unsure. She was biting her lip. He pretended to sip, asking, “What’s the occasion?”

“Do we need an occasion?” Polo thumped Guzmán’s shoulder. “Just relax. Enjoy yourself. You’ve been too much of a homebody!”

Lu and Carla cheered then snagged flutes from the table. Clara raised her’s high. “To us!” Lu copied her, her eyes flicking from Ander to Polo. Guzmán wasn’t able to catch her attention. Her eyes seemed hard over her bright smile.

The boys took up the salute. “To us!” Guzmán felt Carla watching him so he tipped back the flute and swallowed it down. It burned all the way to his stomach.


End file.
